


Gold Rush

by pocketedwocket



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Dylric, Dylric - Relationship - Freeform, M/M, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 02:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15985223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketedwocket/pseuds/pocketedwocket
Summary: One hook-up turns into two, with promises of more, but there's more than Eric and Dylan's pride working to keep them apart.





	Gold Rush

Dylan and Eric are sitting across from each other at the lunch table. Eric’s hands are clasped in front of him, resting on the table. Dylan’s left hand clenches his backpack. He reaches out with his index finger ever so slowly and barely nudges Eric’s hands with the tip of his finger, all the while looking at Eric and not breaking eye contact. 

“Still on for tonight?”

The two of them planned to get a hotel room, if they could manage, and hang out and get drunk, out from under the auspices of their parents, who had been completely on their asses of late. 

*

Dylan is waiting in the grassy part of the front lawn, standing patiently waiting for Eric to pick him up. Eric can spot him from the end of Deer Creek when he turns down Dylan’s street. He’s 6'3" and wearing his black trenchcoat. Eric can usually pick him out from a mile away. His height makes him easy to spot in a crowd or across a room.

Dylan waves at him when he rolls down the window. “Hey.”

Eric fumbles for the lock so Dylan can throw his backpack in the backseat of the gray car. He takes the passenger seat, which is already moved as far back as it can go to accommodate his height. “Fuckin’ Friday,” he says. They’re both thrilled it’s the weekend. No Columbine until Monday morning. 

*

It was raining by the time Dylan and Eric pulled up to the motel. Water beat heavily onto the hood of the car, sluicing down the windshield. The '86 Prelude maneuvers into the parking space directly in front of a door. The wood was cheap, and the red paint around the doorframe was faded and worn off at the corners. A bronze 8 hung at an angle in the center of the door.   


Dylan hesitates, his hand hovering over the car’s door handle. 

Eric jingles the keys in his hand. 

“I’m going to pay,” he says to Dylan. They had pooled their money the day before, saving up cash from their paychecks and leftover lunch money. Eric pulls his backwards cap off his head and tosses it onto the dashboard.

A few minutes later, he comes rushing back, dangling a room key in his hand. 

Dylan’s first impression of the room is that… well, it’s ugly. The two beds have hideous maroon bedspreads. The TV has a rinkydink wood panel that’s badly scratched. The remote control… are those chew marks? Dylan runs his hand across the pebbled surface of the walls and drops his backpack on the bed closest to the window. He looks around. There’s a shabby desk in the corner with a barebones chair, and a small nightstand with an alarm clock sandwiched in between the beds. He drops Eric’s hat on the nightstand.

“Yo, is there a hook-up for the Playstation?” Eric asks, bounding into the room. He slings his duffle bag in between the two beds. 

“You’re next to the TV,” Dylan points out. Eric looks behind the television, flips Dylan a thumbs up sign, and flops onto a bed. Dylan closes the blinds, sits down on the chair and watches Eric pull at the hem of his white t-shirt.

“How much was the room?”

“Forty bucks,” Eric said. Not bad. 

“What’d you tell her?”

“I’m applying for Arapahoe Community College.” Dylan hadn’t thought of that. It was a good one. Eric sits up and starts rifling through the duffle bag. He pulls out a Playstation and two controllers, a pack of Kamel reds, two small bottles of Jack Daniels, and finallly, a bottle of Absolut. “Hey Vodka.” His eyes get wider with every item Eric pulls out of the bag. 

“Damn. Where’d you pick that up, Eric?”

“I have my ways,” he answers vaguely. 

Dylan grins. “Okay.”

“You have the video camera?” Eric asks. Dylan nods and takes it out of his backpack. He sets it on the desk and uncaps the lens. “Good.” He turns so Eric can’t see the corners of his mouth turn up. He likes the way it feels when Eric praises him but that’s not something he’d ever admit. 

Dylan takes a swig of the vodka. 

Soon enough they have the Playstation plugged into the television. They perch on the edge of the bed, controllers at the ready. 

They both stare at the screen, yelping and howling when their lives are threatened. Dylan reaches a hand out and shoves it in front of Eric, trying to grab his hand away from the controller to throw him off. Eric shoves him back and waves his hand in front of Dylan’s face, trying to block his view.

“Stop,” Dylan hisses, trying to bite at Eric’s hand.

“Augh!” Eric yelps, dropping his arm, but the damage is done. Dylan finished the level.

Eric falls back on the bed, audibly sighing and dropping the controller beside him. “Your turn,” he says. He listens to Dylan’s movements in the game. He knows the sound of the level by heart, anticipating every move before he makes it.

When he finishes the game, he collapses beside Eric. Dylan can feel the warmth of Eric’s body next to him where their arms are just an inch away. He doesn’t say anything, just focuses on the way it feels. He’s never been in a bed with another person before, not even at sleepovers. 

So this is it. No parents, no siblings, nobody in the world but Eric and Dylan. They wanted time to plan, undisturbed. They’d both lied to their parents, saying they were at the other boy’s house, knowing they wouldn’t get caught.

Dylan stared at the popcorn ceiling silently for a few minutes and imagined he had his own place, an apartment. It was hard to picture. He imagines a black leather sofa instead of the double beds. He can’t picture himself or Eric any older, strangely. It just.. wasn’t right. 

Dylan turns his head to look at Eric who is… wow, right there. Eric is closer than he remembers and looks just as scared as Dylan feels. He reaches out with his left hand, touching Dylan experimentally. Eric is so hesitant, fingers ghosting across his skin like he could break. Dylan shivers with every touch, unused to feeling someone else’s hands on his body. 

Dylan is terrified of looking desperate but has no words for the electric feeling that moves up his spine when Eric grabs his arm a little bit tighter. Almost at the same time, they lean closer to one another and suddenly they are in the middle of a kiss. Both of them shut their eyes and lean into it.

It takes a few minutes of kissing Eric before Dylan latches on to a wave of courage. He grips Eric’s shoulders, suddenly feeling more confident when he realizes Eric is kissing him back relentlessly. “You’re so hot, Reb,” Dylan breathes, helpless. In the moment it was so hard not to give in.

Dylan shakes when Eric touches him, presses his fingers against Dylan’s jaw with tentative teenage touches. Nobody’s ever touched him like this. Nobody’s ever touched him. 

“Let me try something,” Eric says. He flips their bodies so he’s above Dylan, cautiously straddling him with a new look on his face that Dylan can’t pin down. Eric reaches for Dylan’s hands, Dylan thinks at first, but then realizes that Eric is going for his wrists. Something like a Zippo spark goes off inside Dylan when Eric pulls his arms above his head, keeping them pinned in place. Dylan can feel Eric’s thumb on his pulse, can feel the warmth where Eric’s fingers curl solidly around his wrists. 

Dylan doesn’t move and neither of them are sure if it’s because Eric is holding him in place or if Dylan is just transfixed by the moment. Right now, Dylan would do just about anything Eric asked. 

Eric has a dark look in his eyes. He’s always so reserved and cool, trying to be aloof and distant from the world that it’s a surprise when he bursts into a smile. 

Eric leans down and kisses Dylan, tightening his grip on the taller boy. He pulls back - almost tauntingly - and Dylan tries unsuccessfully to follow him up. Eric presses down with his full weight, keeping Dylan flat against the bed. Dylan starts to grin. Eric’s fingers tighten again when he rocks down against Dylan. “Fuck yeah,” Dylan gasps. 

Determination flashes in Eric’s eyes. He does it again, a little bit harder. Eric is so much smaller than Dylan that being on top of him makes him feel drunk with power. It’s sloppy, and awkward, and it’s the best damn thing he’s ever felt. The mattress creaks underneath their bodies.

“Fuck,” Eric breathes. He imagines Dylan letting him do whatever he wants, maybe letting him do something fucked up. Maybe tying him up or choking him. Eric knows he has zipties hidden in his garage. He pictures Dylan wrapped up like a Christmas present. Bound. Maybe gagged. Maybe Dylan would let him, he thinks with a small thrill. Maybe. Eric bets he would sound pretty begging.

He leans forward and kisses Dylan with abandon, who is looking up at him with a glint in his eyes and ragged breath. Eric doesn’t know if it’s shock or awe, but he finally lets him go. Dylan’s large hands tug him closer by his belt loops. Eric licks his lips nervously.

Dylan finally gets a spark of courage, and puts his hands on Eric’s waist. It’s not what he imagined holding a girl would feel like, but he’d never imagined holding a girl pinning him down like that either. They kiss and kiss and kiss, thrilled by the new sensation. Dylan has always felt disconnected, up until now.

They kiss for what must be hours, but Dylan’s lost track of time.

“Take off your shirt,” Dylan whispers. He slides a hand underneath Eric’s t-shirt, warming the skin of Eric’s back with his palm. Eric obeys him, sliding it off slowly and tossing it to the other bed. He tugs at Dylan’s black tee. 

“You too,” Eric says uncomfortably. A noticeable relief flashes on his face when Dylan starts to tug his off shirt. He manages to tug off his pants, too, and then Eric starts lavishing attention on his throat. 

Eric’s never given someone a hickey before. He bites down accidentally and Dylan yelps, trying to reach his neck. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Eric apologizes. When Dylan separates from Eric he manages to reach a hand down and tug on his pants. 

“Off.”

“V, do you want —“ Eric pauses, one hand paused on his own plaid boxers. 

Dylan nods eagerly, running his thumb across the front of Eric’s boxers. Eric takes a deep breath and tenses under Dylan’s touch, quickly sliding his underwear off and dropping it to the floor. He’s thankful the lights are out. 

Eric is more attentive than Dylan expected. He’s quicker to learn Dylan’s body than Dylan is, figuring out where he’s most responsive and adjusting his plan of attack as necessary. Eric studies Dylan’s lanky body like he’s learning to play a new video game, figuring out where Dylan is responsive and what touches make him clam up uncomfortably.

Dylan can’t control the look on his face or the sound he makes when Eric mouths his dick over his boxers. His brain short circuits. 

Eric leans forward and slips his fingers under the rim of Dylan’s boxers, hesitating and looking up at him. 

“Do it,” Dylan breathes, his eyes unable to move away as Eric slides them down painfully slowly. Dylan doesn’t have time to wonder where Eric’s sudden need for permission has come from. Normally he couldn’t give a fuck about _permission_. His dick throbs when Eric drags the fabric over his skin. 

Eric notices the scars on his legs almost immediately and runs his finger over them with a careful slide. 

Dylan’s eyes shut fast while he frowns, an embarrassing noise escaping his lips when Eric slides his mouth around his cock. Eric puts his hands on Dylan’s hips to keep him from bucking up eagerly. 

Dylan’s fingers tighten where he grips the sheets, his knuckles turning pink-white. Eric hollows his cheeks, sucking like he’s done this before.

“How close are you?” 

Eric makes his heart feel like a compass spinning in all directions. Like a burning lighthouse or a rat in a spaceship. There’s something surreal about this. Dylan feels drunk on power with Eric’s dark eyes on him. Being the subject of Eric’s full attention is insane.

Dylan can’t really make any coherent words, so Eric realizes he must be close. He puts Dylan’s hand on his head and finishes the job.

Eric moves up to kiss him, raking his nails down Dylan’s back. Dylan arches his spine, then goes completely still. “Do that again.” 

Eric obeys, digging in a little harder to make Dylan hiss in a mix of pain and pleasure. He grabs Dylan’s ass, grinning into their kiss. “You _would_ like that, wouldn’t you?”

Dylan’s heart is still racing. Dylan knows what it feels like to be grabbed, shoved, pushed into lockers - but he’s never felt _this_ before, the hate battling with something else inside his chest as his body is overwhelmed with a stupid tangled web of emotions. Who’d have thought that he’d be here now with his best friend? 

Something is tugging out of the black hole, something resisting the force that’s sucking everything in his life inside of it, deleting himself, forgetting himself. The rage and insecurity bubble over with something different, something much… nicer.

“Listen, fucker,” Dylan kisses Eric, angling him closer with a gentle hand on his jaw. He reaches up and slides his thumb against Eric’s cheekbone, following the slight curve with his finger. Eric closes his eyes, embarrassed by the touch. Dylan thinks he looks good right now, covered in both of their sweat and slightly flushed.

“Did you plan this?" Dylan asks. Eric is really good at planning a lot of things, but apparently not this one. Eric shakes his head no.

“Didn’t think it’d be you, Vodka.”

Eric laughs and it’s the most perfect sound. Dylan wishes he could record him and play the sound over and over again. Eric could be so angry sometimes, but then sometimes he sounded like this - almost _happy_.

Eric runs his fingers through Dylan’s blonde hair. Dylan keens and leans into the touch. His blonde hair is wild and unruly. Eric works his fingers through a tangle and his sleepy touch is somehow more intimate than anything else they’ve done tonight. 

“Try to go to sleep,” he murmurs. Dylan sighs and closes his eyes.

Eric lets Dylan hold him, lets him wrap Eric up in his long limbs until Dylan’s confident he can’t run from him.

*

Dylan dreams of drowning. The green water surrounds him completely, and he feels himself losing his ability to breathe as he sinks lower and lower, helplessly staring up as the light above the surface grows smaller and smaller. He tries to reach up and swim, and feels resistance. He feels heavy. He realizes he feels iron chains around his wrists. Dylan lets out a garbled scream of desperation but the water swallows his sound. 

He wakes. 

Through the edges of sleep, Dylan can hear running water. It takes a minute for him to climb out of the fog. He realizes after a moment that it’s the shower. Must be Eric, he thinks, and closes his eyes again. He decides he’ll wait for Eric to finish. 

He drifts off again while waiting. It’s not until fifteen minutes later when the sound stops and the bathroom door creaks open. Eric comes out, toweling off his hair and neck. His boxers are riding low on his slim hips.

Eric used to talk about getting a tattoo. Dylan watches his back while he towels off his hair. He imagines a dark pair of wings unfurling over Eric’s shoulder blades, or maybe a 3-barred cross somewhere. Dylan imagines giving Eric the tattoo himself, pressing a needle into his skin, caressing the planes of his back as he leaves a permanent mark in ink on Eric. Something nobody can take from him, something nobody can steal.

Dylan watches Eric frown at himself in the mirror. He realizes Eric’s skin is tinged pink. Parts of it look bright red and raw. He also realizes he’s getting hard again somehow just thinking about Eric’s stupid shoulders. Damn it. He adjusts himself under the covers. There’s a weird spark of… something in the air after the events of the evening, but Dylan is not quite sure how to put his finger on it. Is he supposed to feel different? Damned for all time?

Eric looks... distracted. He doesn’t seem to notice Dylan staring, even when Dylan notices a bruise on his throat that he might have put there. He sits down on the bed opposite Dylan’s, dropping the towel and brooding. Dylan knows Eric’s been beating himself up about something, that much is obvious. He wishes he knew what Eric was thinking. He’s so far away sometimes, even when he’s right there in front of him. He just looks agitated. 

Dylan thought they were supposed to feel different but he’s had it all and it all just feels the same. He watches Eric pull on his jeans.

It’s two in the morning and the rain has finally stopped pouring. “I’m getting a soda,” Eric announces, slipping his wristwatch back onto his left hand. “I need some fucking caffeine.” He grabs the room key and leave to look for a vending machine.  


Eric disappears for several minutes. After five minutes, Dylan starts to get antsy. He gets up and peers through the peephole. Nothing.  


Dylan opens the door slightly and pokes his head out. He sees Eric sitting on the steps to the second floor, smoking a cigarette. He gently closes the door behind him and sits beside Eric on the stairs. 

Wordlessly, Eric offers him the cigarette. Dylan usually smokes menthols but he accepts it. He puts it to his lips and inhales slowly. The taste is smoother than he expected. His fingers brush against Eric’s when he passes the cigarette back. He wonders if Eric tastes like smoke or if the smoke would just taste like Eric. 

Two moths buzz around the light above the door. Dylan wants to ask if Eric is okay, but doesn’t want to break the silence. He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear awkwardly.

Dylan is reminded of one of those endless summer nights, the kind with all the time in the world, with nowhere to go, driving around aimlessly with music drifting out the open windows. They’ve spent so many of those nights together. 

“Are you mad at me?” Dylan asks. Eric shakes his head no, and the younger boy bumps him with his shoulder.

Eric sips from a can of Dr. Pepper, which he picked mostly for Dylan. “For you,” he says, passing it to Dylan, looking at him for the first time since they went to sleep.

“I’m not a faggot,” Eric says, looking back at the floor with intensity. 

“I know,” Dylan agrees. “Me neither.”

“What the fuck is this then?” he asks.

“We’re Reb and Vodka,” Dylan says quietly after a minute. They’re a team. Partners in crime.

So it is. Maybe they don’t need a name for it. Why does it have to be anything? They’ll be dead soon enough anyway.

They share the rest of his cigarette, passing it back and forth until it burns to ashes. Eric pushes the nub into the cement to extinguish the ember and tosses the butt away.

Eric notices Dylan shiver and stands up, reaching a hand out for the other young man. Dylan looks up and down the hall for other people before taking it, but the coast is clear and it’s so late that everyone is asleep in their rooms… Eric hands him the Dr. Pepper to hold with his free hand while he unlocks the door, and he waits patiently before following the older boy back into the room.

Eric pours another Jack Daniels for himself and drinks it uncomfortably quickly, his motions illuminated by the television. He gags a little on the taste. Dylan does the same with the vodka, unscrewing it with one hand, but swallows from the bottle with a practiced ease. Liquid courage. 

“Jetzt hab ich dich,” Eric says, taking another drink of Jack Daniels and looking anywhere but Dylan’s face.

“What?” Dylan blushes instinctively. What is he saying that he can’t manage in English?

Eric makes his fingers into the shape of a gun and points it at Dylan. Dylan moves his hand - which is even bigger - and smothers Eric’s gesture, taking his hand. He squeezes Eric’s hand before intertwining his fingers between Eric’s.

They stand like that for a minute until Dylan crawls into the bed and pulls the covers back, motioning for Eric to join him.

Eric kisses him before he has a chance to lay back and separate. His hand is so warm on Dylan’s shoulder. They kiss… and kiss…. sleepy and drunk, all of their touches turn drowsy and slow until they lose themselves in one another.

Eventually Eric starts leaning more toward the pillow than Dylan. As much as Dylan would rather cling to him, he lets the boy give in to sleep.

Dylan watches Eric sleeping, getting self-conscious and trying not to stare, feeling like Eric is hyper-aware even in the throes of slumber. They’re lying inches apart but it feels worlds away.

Maybe Dylan was right - a few minutes later Eric pops an eye open and looks back at him. “Are you watching me?” he asks. There goes his little secret. 

Eric is more of a morning person than Dylan is, but he seems pretty exhausted. He slips a hand out and grasps at the front of Dylan’s shirt, which Dylan had pulled on quickly afterward in a moment of self-consciousness and doubt. “Come here.” He pulls Dylan closer. 

Instead, they kiss each other until the wee hours of the morning, when Eric finally pulls away to glimpse at the hotel clock. 4:30am. “Damn,” he whispers. 

Dylan pulls him closer. He’ll hold him tight, even if it’s just for a few more hours. What’s going to happen when this night ends? When they leave this room? Will this moment be painfully over?

Eric asks him about sleep. “I can’t,” Dylan whispers back. “I feel like I’m going to sleep through check-out.”

They decide to put on a movie to keep them awake. Eric’s just going to put something on the television, flipping through the channels, when Dylan reaches for his backpack. “Oh wait - I forgot. I picked this up,” he says, pulling a VHS out. _Lola Rennt_. He pops it in the VCR and it whirrs to life.

A redhead runs across the screen. “Ah fuck,” Dylan says, irritated when he realizes nobody has rewound the tape. They wait until the gears turn and there’s an audible click. 

When the movie starts, they settle in and take their places side-by-side on the bed. Eric grabs for the VHS box but Dylan manhandles it away and back into his bag. Eric grumbles. “What is this? Is it new?”

“Just watch.”

They’re about forty-five minutes into the film, when Lola is holding her father at gunpoint, when Eric suddenly relaxes against Dylan. He lets Dylan slide an arm around Eric’s waist and the shorter boy leans his head against Dylan’s shoulder.

Dylan tries to kiss Eric before the movie is over and gets pushed back. Eric has this thing about not finishing a movie or TV show. “You know better,” Eric glares, face forming into a brief scowl.

“You’re cute when you’re angry,” Dylan says, eyes widening with regret and only realizing a moment after the fact that he’s accidentally called Eric cute. Eric glares at him.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“I said... I said you were cute,” Dylan said, cowering a bit.

“Cute? You should be fucking terrified of me, Dylan,” Eric hisses. He grabs Dylan’s throat and squeezes. Dylan’s eyes close as he loses his breath but he manages to smile. “Don’t make me -” Eric growls.

“Eric,” he chokes. Trust years of being abused in school hallways for Eric to second guess any compliment, even from his friend. He’s been shoved into way too many lockers to let this happen, apparently.

Dylan used to dream about sitting next to a girl watching movies. They’d hold hands, maybe brush fingers in a bowl of popcorn - all the cliches. Sitting next to Eric like this is different, but it doesn’t feel _wrong_. 

Eric lets out the breath he’s holding. Manni and Lola talk about death with a lack of commitment that Dylan finds insincere. He leans his head against Eric’s. His hand slips under Eric’s tee, free from any particular intention but realizing how good it feels. His heart hammers in his chest. There’s something intimate about the way Eric was tucked under the crook of his arm.

“Did you like it?” Dylan asks him.

“Yeah. It was different. Good job, V.”

*

The morning sunlight peeks into the room through the edges of the curtains. A sliver of sun shines through where Dylan had been watching the moon only a few hours before. He touches Eric’s arm, soft at first. Eric doesn’t push him away so he keeps it up.

“I’m sorry,” Dylan nervously apologizes, looking away from Eric and wringing his hands nervously. “I didn’t-“

“Don’t apologize,” Eric says angrily. Dylan doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what else Eric wants from him.

Eric steers him forward with a hand on his jaw, kissing him hard. Dylan’s eyes open wide in surprise. Dylan thought he was ashamed or angry - maybe not. Dylan kisses him back, letting Eric lead the kiss. It’s not hesitant or searching, like earlier, it’s decisive. Dominating.

It’s a kiss from someone who knows what he wants, even if he’s afraid to say it. Eric’s lips and teeth speak volumes. “I hate that I fucking like this,” Eric complains.

Dylan has never heard that sound from Eric before - a guttural whine from somewhere deep within him. He wants to hear it again and again and again. 

Everything burned away in an instant, everything like crazy and rage and queer and whatever, burning away like embers in a dying fire.

Maybe Eric will forgive his sentimentality because he had his dick in his mouth earlier.

“I want to take you on a real date. To a real movie.” He sounds different, aware he’s being vulnerably open and saying something that’s terrifyingly honest. Something in him wants to impress Eric.

“Really?” Eric seems surprised. Dylan’s just glad he didn’t freak out and get angry.

“Yeah.”

“OK,” Eric agrees, without Dylan having to explain further. Dylan hides his smile. Dylan kisses Eric’s bare shoulder.

It was kind of nice to be the center of someone’s attention for someone to realize what he was capable of. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be Dylan’s priority for a while.

He knew Dylan could be obsessive and adoring, so maybe it would feel okay having that energy spent on him. Maybe he’d write one of those edgy journal entries or dedicate a song to him in his notebook. Vodka was a bit dramatic, or maybe romantic was the right word. Dylan at least understood him better than anyone else.

“I don’t give a shit about anybody but you, Reb,” and his name sounds like a prayer on Vodka’s lips.

Dylan is the first to sit up in bed, working his hair into a ponytail. His blonde hair is tangled from the night before.

Dylan pulls on a red shirt from his backpack.

Dylan watches while Eric rummages around in his own bag for a clean shirt. “What’s that?” Dylan asks, after a light rattle. Eric frowns.

“Pills,” he says, sullen. ”I didn’t take it last night.”

“Why not?”

“I wanted to feel…” Eric drops off and doesn’t finish his sentence.

“Feel what?” Dylan prods gently.

“Feel everything. Feel you.” Eric nervously crosses his arms. Dylan can tell by Eric’s eyes that he’s gone to an unhappy place. 

Dylan has always looked for ways to distract Eric. He bends down and kisses him, pleased with this newfound power he has to stop Eric’s thought patterns in their tracks. 

“Reb. _Reb_.” Dylan cradles Eric’s head in his hands. “You’re so cool,” he whispers, quoting one of his favorite movies. He knows Eric will know what he means when he uses the same words Alabama says over and over again to Clarence at the end of _True Romance_. _You’re so cool, you’re so cool, you’re so cool._

*

It’s not long before Eric kisses Dylan. They get bold, the second time. He has to stand up on his toes to get at the right angle to stick his tongue in V’s mouth. He hangs on to Dylan’s sleeve for balance. 

Eric walks them over to the tan recliner mid-kiss, pushing Dylan into a sitting position on the edge. Dylan tucks his hands into Eric’s back pockets while they make out, hot and heavy, drawing him close while he plunders Eric’s mouth with his tongue. 

Eric feels stronger this time, braver. Confident enough to learn forward and pull off Dylan’s shirt, sliding it over his head. The only sound is the hushed breaths they take between them. Dylan is shaking and trying to hide it. Eric knows him too well for that. He presses his hands against Dylan’s skin, trying to be reassuring. “Do you trust me?” he asks. Dylan can’t even muster a response but nods, covering Eric’s hand with his own. It’s a solid touch, his fingers still on Eric’s.

A well-timed moan obscures a soft rap at the door. Dylan and Eric are so wrapped up in each other, kissing hard and grasping at the other’s bodies, that they miss the sound of the basement door swinging open and Eric’s mom walking into the room.

She gasps. Her hand flies to her mouth. “Eric Harris!”

Eric pulls back from Dylan, licking his lips and trying to adjust his pants without anyone noticing. Dylan reaches for his elbow instinctively when he sees the angry look on Eric’s mother’s face. _Fuck_ , he thinks, and his mother starts to shriek. “Get away from my son,” she hollers at Dylan, her eyes staring daggers. 

“Mom-“

“You,” she says to Eric. “Shut your mouth.” She looks at Dylan. “Get _out_!”

Dylan panics and says “I’ll see you at school”, touching Eric’s shoulder and leaving the room. Eric can’t manage a farewell either, just looks at his floor. _God damnit_ , he thinks, he’s never tried to sneak a girl in his room or anything, only he would be so unlucky to get busted the first time he tried to kiss anyone in the basement. His eyes burn with anger as Dylan exits.

“Mom,” he tries again. His hands are cold. 

“I am so disappointed in you, Eric,” she says with her hands on her hips.

“Dylan is…” Eric realizes he doesn’t actually know what Dylan is. Things had happened too quickly for that. He can be himself around Dylan, and that’s something. “You don’t understand,” he says with a dry throat.

“He’s trouble. That’s what he is. Your… boyfriend.” She spits it like a dirty word. He feels dirty enough.

His parents would never understand. Nobody understood Eric and Dylan. Nobody cared enough to understand. Of course they would treat him like some kind of monster. Dylan’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to him. 

Eric shoves the dresser and stuff goes flying. A jar of change falls to the floor and scatters.

*

Eric is grounded for weeks. No friends, no phone, no television. Dylan counts the days down for him. The minute his phone privileges are redeemed, Eric receives a phone call from his friend.

“How was your day?” 

“Pointless,” he mutters.

Dylan doesn’t respond right away. “My mom’s going to be out of town this weekend.”

“And?”

“And I think I can convince my dad to let me out.”

“So? You still can’t come over here.”

“Let’s see a movie,” Dylan says instead. “That’s the best I can do.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

*

Eric had been looking forward to this night ever since Dylan had brought it up. They hadn’t _really_ done anything since that night in the hotel but Eric had promised himself that he was going to make a move tonight if Dylan didn't. 

Dylan pays for their tickets at the movie theatre, so Eric offers to buy their snacks. They hustle to the back row during the trailers, almost climbing over one another in the process. They claim seats in the very center of the row. They’re not going to risk anyone behind them seeing them, not even the projectionist.

“Do you want anything to eat?” Eric offers. They deliberate over their choices and eventually settle on Skittles. Well, Eric wants cookie dough bites, but Dylan wants Skittles so he acquiesces.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Eric says before bounding down the steps of the theatre.

Dylan looks offended when Eric returns with one soda, getting back right as the movie starts. “Where’s mine?”

“Free refills,” Eric says like that explains everything. 

Eric sneaks a glance at Dylan’s face in the dark.

Thirty minutes into the movie, Dylan absent-mindedly strokes the edge of Eric’s hand, his long fingers lingering against Eric’s.

Eric splays his fingers out and waits for Dylan to make a move. Dylan’s arms are longer too, so it’s easier for him to reach over into Eric’s chair and take his hand.

They hold hands in the dark, Dylan watches the outline of his face in the illumination from the projector's bulb, looking for clues. He watches Eric more than he watches the movie.

Eric dares to sneak a kiss from Dylan, chaste and shorter than Dylan likes but they’re in fucking _public_. They shouldn’t be doing this at all. Dylan looks at all the people sitting in front of them, but they’re all engrossed in the silver screen. He wishes the theatre was empty.

Dylan runs his thumb across Eric’s knuckles. 

Eric moves the soda to another cupholder so he can lean further over the armrest. He kisses Dylan with tongue until the boy’s cheeks turn pink and he pulls away, breathing heavily. The half-eaten box of Skittles is on the floor, forgotten.

Dylan tastes like the fucking rainbow.


End file.
